


got me moving too fast

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fingering, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's so fucking hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got me moving too fast

**Author's Note:**

> riiiiiiiiiiiiight, so.

Mum has gone out of town for the weekend for business for the weekend, so it’s just him, Marcel, and Gemma. Gemma’s been given the honour of watching over them, which what the _fuck_ , they’re seventeen, not four. But their mother doesn’t believe that they won’t throw some crazy party. Or, more specifically, him. 

It’s so entirely unfair, and he’s sure that if his Mum knew the amount of times Gemma has thrown complete bloody raves, she’d be a bit more wary to put trust into her hands. 

He repeats this to Louis, who’s sitting astride his thighs and going through his phone. He’s pretending to be texting someone very important, but Harry knows for a fact that he’s probably just playing Candy Crush. 

“That’s, like, the fifth time you’ve said that to me in the past hour alone. I think I get the point, love.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry grumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes. Their AC went haywire last night, and the repairs can’t be done until Monday, and it’s August and feels like it’s 40 degrees outside and he wants to _die_. “You’re the oldest. There’s no way you get it.”

“Maybe you should be best mates with Lot, then,” Louis tells him, adjusting himself on Harry’s lap. Harry tries not to think about how close Louis’ ass is to his dick, thinks about his grandmother and Gemma’s smelly gym socks. 

“Maybe I will,” he retorts brilliantly, staying stock still. 

“Nah,” Louis decides, throwing his leg over Harry’s hips and hopping off the bed gracefully, holding himself steady with a warm hand on Harry’s thigh. “You’re far too filthy. You’d corrupt her.”

“Have I corrupted you?” Harry asks, turning his head on the pillow to watch Louis stretch, phone high in the air and his shirt hiking up to reveal a slither of tanned skin. He has to take in a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight and pretending there’s nothing the matter when Louis grabs his arm and makes him stand up and follow him out of the room. 

Louis laughs. “Have you? I’ve seen and done things you couldn’t even imagine, Harry Styles.” Harry keeps his gaze steady on Louis’ shoulder as they bound down the grand staircase of his house, because he’s stronger than his urges and can overcome his lust. Or something. He thinks he heard that in church once. 

“Like what?” he asks, even though he already knows them all. Louis tells him about all his sexual escapades, but more and more lately, it’s become unbearable to hear them in such explicit detail, even worse when Louis showed up at his house this morning with a limp in his step and a huge grin despite his hangover and Harry had to grin and pat him on the back as if jealousy wasn’t eating him up inside. But. Whatever. 

“ _Well_ ,” Louis answers, turning for the kitchen. “I once let someone fuck me in a dirty backalley with just spit. All that fun stuff. Might be a tad delicate for your young ears.”

Harry presses the heel of his palm against his crotch, refusing to let the image rise up. Or other things. “And then had to skip out on school the next day because you couldn’t fucking well walk.”

Louis turns to make a face at him. “You always ruin the mood.”

Harry doesn’t notice that the fridge is open or that Marcel is stood in the kitchen until it’s too late and his twin brother is straightening himself up, the blush high on his cheeks letting them know that he heard exactly what Louis said. 

Harry rolls his eyes and grabs a half-empty bottle of water sitting there on the counter, bringing it up to his lips and watching as Marcel awkwardly greets the two of them, face still bright red and eyes avoidant. 

“Hi,” he stammers out, awkwardly holding an apple in his hand. His hands are the same size as Harry’s, and here at home, when he hasn’t got that godawful fucking grease ruining his hair, he’s got the same curls fanning across his face, dressed in what looks like are Harry’s basketball shorts and tee. Same height, eyes, expressions and yet - shit. Harry doesn’t think he and Marcel have been anything alike since they were fourteen, especially not since Harry opted the way of contacts and Marcel stuck with those huge frames. That was the year he met Louis, he thinks. And also the same year someone else took Marcel’s title as his best friend, but whatever, that’s all in the past. 

“Hey, Maz,” Louis grins. He’s the only one who ever calls Marcel that, and it’s _such_ a bad nickname, doesn’t fit at all. “Have _you_ ever let yourself get fucked in a dirty alley with no lube?”

Marcel’s mouth is hanging open, and really, it’s just embarrassing. “Lou,” Harry warns. 

Louis steps closer to the fridge. Marcel moves to the side. Snorting, Louis opens the freezer and reaches his hand up to grab two popsicles from the fridge, throwing a blue at Harry’s head and biting the tip of the red one to get it open. “Or maybe he’s the one doing the fucking. I hear it’s always the quiet ones who are total monsters in bed.”

“ _Louis_ , honestly.” He roughly bites the tip of his own off, holding it around the center of the plastic and sucking it into his lips for a second before pulling back. “That obviously can’t just be true because you’re both a slag _and_ a loudmouth.”

Louis pouts. “No need for the harsh words. Just having a friendly conversation about sex. Aren’t we, Maz?”

Marcel whispers, “I suppose,” his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. Louis has always made him so nervous, and sometimes Harry isn’t even sure if Marcel likes him at all, judging from how he always hides out in his room whenever Louis comes over. Which is often. He thinks that might be why, on the rare occasions Louis has a run in with him, he’s unnecessarily brutal in making him squirm. Louis has always been bad at people not liking him or at least being so obvious about it. Harry has his guesses as to why Marcel dislikes Louis, but he shoves them to the back of his mind; doesn’t like thinking about it. 

“He’s my brother,” Harry reminds him. He thinks he sees Marcel’s lips twitch, and Harry doesn’t allow himself to think about the irony in his words. 

“So? Everyone’s thought about it objectively. Doesn’t like, mean that you wanna suck his dick, or anything.”

Marcel is looking directly at him now, and Harry feels a swoop in his gut, remembers thirteen and fourteen and not having anyone but each other in all sense of the term, but - past. Past. 

“You’re being intolerable,” Harry finally sighs, forcing himself to ignore Marcel’s steady gaze. “Let’s go back up to the room, yeah? Before Marcel kicks you out, or something.”

Louis grins, sharklike, and turns on his heel to jog toward the staircase. “He couldn’t even if he tried.” 

Harry doesn’t follow behind him immediately, because just as he turns to go, Marcel calls out, “Harry, wait.” Harry pauses, popsicle in his mouth as he quirks his brow at his brother. Marcel doesn’t continue, though, just stands there just partially covered by the fridge and stares at Harry, mouth slightly gaping open as if he’s lost for words. Harry feels his chest constrict, and tells himself that he must still be thinking about Louis when he feels his dick begin to swell in his shorts. 

“Look,” he says, ebbing down the feeling and removing the popsicle from his mouth, licking the juice away from his lips. “If you’re not gonna say anything, I’m gonna, like. Go. If you need help with something, I’m sure Gemma can help. ‘ve got to get back to Lou. We were talking about something.” 

“All you’ve done for the past three years is talk to him about something,” Marcel rushes out, his jaw tightening. He looks different when he’s angry, and it’s...

“I’m gonna go,” he repeats, not looking Marcel in the eye or allowing himself to respond to his comment before finally running - leaving, _leaving_ the kitchen and the identical pair of eyes glaring back at him. 

-

Louis leaves at around seven, getting summoned by his mum to go babysit his sisters. 

“Lottie is like, fifteen, why the fuck isn’t she getting _summoned_ to watch them? When I was fifteen I was still stuck watching them,” Louis complains, toeing his shoes on in front of the door. 

“Doesn’t Lottie have a study date today, or something?” Harry asks.

“ _Study date_ ,” Louis snorts. “I wanna go on a study date. You think Maz would tutor me?” 

Harry huffs out a breath. “Stop being so horrid to him all the time.”

“I’m not the one who’s horrid to him,” Louis snaps, frowning. “He hasn’t said more than fifty words to me in like, a decade. Don’t even know what I’ve fucking done.”

Harry shrugs, opening the door and poking Louis out. “Go. Jay’s waiting for you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to - ”

“Totally positive,” he repeats for the third time since Louis was called. “Send the girls my love, yeah?”

“You’re a shitty friend,” Louis replies, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek before stepping out and closing the door behind him. Harry presses his forehead against the door, closing his eyes and breathing in and out deeply. The house, multistoried and huge though it may be, seems to have shrunken immensely now that Louis’ left and there’s one less barrier between him and Marcel. _God_ , he’s so shitty. 

Now that Louis’ gone, he can take off his shirt without fear that Louis will twist his nipples, so he does just that, throwing it over his shoulder as he walks over to the kitchen. 

He’s bent over the fridge, rummaging for something to wear, when a hand is slapping between his shoulderblades. He jumps, turning around swiftly with a cheese stick held tightly in his hand like some sort of weapon. He relaxes when he sees it was just Gemma, stood there with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. “Shit, Gem. Thought you were Ma...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, cringing at the way his sister’s eyes lose the amusement and become much more annoyed. 

“Speaking of Marcel,” she says, leaning against the counter. “You do realise that he’s your brother, right? _Twin_ brother?”

“It’s a bit hard to avoid,” Harry answers her, trying to stall the conversation. “Are you having an epiphany?”

Gemma ignores him. She does that a lot. Most of the time. “Stop bloody avoiding him. You know I love Louis, but, like, c’mon, H. Marcel was your best friend for fourteen years and then you just up and ditched him like that? And you won’t even look at him sometimes, and you _know_ how they treat him at that school. He shouldn’t have to get treated that way by his own brother, too.”

“Hey,” Harry responds, feeling the guilt rise up tenfold in his chest, “I don’t treat him the way they do at the school, that’s not fair and you know it. And I stand up for him, like - ”

“You’re missing the point, asshole.” She sighs, rolling her eyes and grabbing a peach from the fruit bowl. “Why do I even put up with you? Right, look. If you have a conversation with him, an _actual_ conversation, honestly don’t care if you ask him about the weather, I won’t tell Mum that you tried throwing a party.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “I _didn’t_ try to throw a party!”

Gemma smiles. It reminds him a lot of what the devil must look like after someone dies of a horrific car accident. “Offer still stands. I’m gonna go nap for a few years, try not to blast Bastille so loudly the entire neighbourhood can hear.”

“They’re not all I listen to, you know,” Harry defends. Gemma snorts and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Harry to stand there awkwardly, mulling over her words. He knows that, objectively, he’s being horrible to Marcel. Not just objectively. Definitely. But it’s just - it’s hard speaking to someone regularly or even at all when you know that they’re your fucking brother and have had their mouth on— 

He fears his mum’s potential wrath more than he’ll ever fear Marcel, though, so he grabs a banana from the bowl and heads out of the kitchen for Marcel’s room on the third floor, on the opposite end of the hall as his. It used to be so convenient, either one sneaking out of their room at night and tiptoeing across the hall to crawl into the other’s bed, but now it’s absolutely frightening and daunting. The thought of speaking to Marcel is frightening and daunting. 

Harry stares at the giant ‘M’ emblazoned in orange, Harry’s favourite colour, on Marcel’s door, and tries not to think about the ‘H’ on his own in purple, Marcel’s preference. He’s seventeen. He can do this. He’s practically an adult. There’s no need for him to be afraid of his own twin. 

Harry takes hold of the knob, turning it slowly and pushing it open, taking a deep breath as he takes a step forward, gripping the banana tightly. 

He... does not walk in to anything he was expecting. 

Marcel is lying flat on his back on his bed, completely starkers from the waist down with his legs up and knees bent. His glasses are off, and his hair is total wreck, face flushed as he pants out heavy breaths. He’s got a hand under his shirt, his cock ignored and curving towards his stomach, and it takes Harry only a millisecond to realise where the other hand is, long fingers curled inside his ass and fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

It’s like he’s been frozen, unable to move from this spot and do anything other than watch his brother finger himself. 

Hardly three seconds pass before Marcel notices him, turning his head to the side and staring back at Harry wide green eyes, even though his motions never waver. He lets out a loud moan the second his gaze lands on Harry, his hand coming out from under his shirt to grip his dick. 

Harry steps back and slams the door shut. 

He runs all the way across the hall to his room, closing it once he’s in and sliding down the door to sit on the floor, his head in his hands. He feels like he might start crying or something equally melodramatic, but even greater than that need is his erection pressing against his loose shorts and the images running back and forth through his mind. They’re so graphic, so extreme, and he feels like he’s going completely out of his mind. He still remembers so vividly how it feels to be the one inside Marcel and that’s so fucking _sick_ , that’s his brother. 

He can’t help it, though, when he has to stumble onto his bed, walking almost impossible with how swollen his dick is in his pants. He plops onto his back, lifting his hips so he can pull down his shorts and kick them off, the shirt over his shoulder having fallen in the hallway. The moan he lets out when he finally gets a hand around his cock is high pitched and is more like a whine, like some desperate sound he can’t care to help. He feels overheated and like his skin is going to burn itself off, and it’s no longer just because of the temperature or anything that the slight breeze coming in through his window can help. 

He wanks furiously, his hand in a tight grip as he fists his cock, so dry it hurts. He flicks his thumb over the head, collecting the precome at the slit and trying to spread it down to ease the burn. It doesn’t help much at all, but Harry doesn’t mind, thinks he deserves that. He bites down hard on his lip to keep the noises from escaping, closing his eyes as he feels his orgasm begin to build, a burn in his gut and his senses blurring. 

He lets himself imagine, just for a second, that it’s his brother’s grip on his cock, pumping him up and down roughly, looking up at him through his glasses with his head tilted and red, red lips parted. Which is, of course, when the door opens and Marcel walks in. 

“Fuck,” Harry swears, forcing himself to let go of his cock and scrambling to sit up, placing a sheet over his crotch to try and cover himself. It. Of fucking course, it doesn’t help a single bit, and the tall bulge of his cock tents the sheet obscenely. “Haven’t you ever fucking heard of knocking?” 

He’s never claimed to be anything less than a hypocrite, but Marcel doesn’t call him out, just stands there are stares, much like the brief scene in the kitchen, except that this time Harry is on the brink of orgasm and can feel Marcel’s eyes on the elevated sheet. 

His glasses are back on, but his pale face is still flushed and his curls are out on full display. He brings a hand up to push his hair back from where it’d been falling beneath the rim of his frames and all Harry can think about is where those fingers just were. Harry feels his cock twitch beneath the sheet, and he knows that it’s obvious, feels like it’s gotten seventy degrees warmer in here. 

Marcel takes a step forward. 

“Can you please leave?” Harry pleads, scooting farther back on his bed. All the sheet has managed to do is make things 

Marcel hasn’t stopped moving closer; he’s directly in front of the bed and Harry now, his hand hovering so close to Harry’s lap. “Marcel,” he breathes. “Please.” He tells himself that he’s begging him to leave, but they both know this isn’t true and never has been. 

“Can I help? Marcel asks, voice soft as ever, but when he looks into Harry’s eyes, there’s fiery heat in the green. Harry doesn’t say no, which is more than answer enough, and he watches with bated breath as Marcel’s hand moves to push the sheet aside. One of his fingers catches, and Harry gasps as the material brushes against the sensitive head of his cock, providing more friction than had been there before. 

Marcel’s hand is lightly closing around his dick before Harry has even properly blinked, his brother climbing onto the bed and crawling forward on his knees. Harry feels frozen in place and frightened and so goddamn turned on it’s driving him mad.

Marcel has inched his head closer to Harry’s cock, tilting his head just the way Harry had imagined, his glasses falling down to the bridge of his nose. His grip on Harry’s dick has been light since he first placed it there, but suddenly he’s tightening the fist, twisting his wrist sharply and flicking his thumb over the slit. Harry feels a keening noise leave his throat unbidden, his hips jerking up into Marcel’s hand. 

“You said my name,” Marcel breathes, raising his head and looking straight into Harry’s eyes. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. 

“What’re you talking about?” Harry strains, digging his fingernails into the soft skin of his thigh, using the pain to anchor him down. 

“You said,” Marcel repeats, “my name. I was - gonna walk downstairs after... after, and I passed by your room and you said my name. Moaned my name. You _moaned_ my name.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry tells him, digging his nails in deeper. Marcel is so, so close. 

“You did,” Marcel insists, twisting his wrist again, rougher this time, narrowing his eyes behind his huge glasses. He uses his free hand to readjust them properly on his face, continuing, “I know you don’t care much for what I say anymore, I know that, but I am not so desperate that I would lie about that just to get into - I wouldn’t lie about that. And you did. I heard you. You walked in on me and then you came in here to wank and you said my name. I’m not stupid, Harry.”

Harry knows that he’s not stupid, he always has, in completely different ways than everyone else narrows it down into. Marcel is still staring at him intensely, and it still shocks Harry to this day the ways that he changes when they do this, the way his focus absolutely singles down and how less reserved he becomes, saying most of what he wants and how he wants it instead of stuttering and blushing the way he does if he has to talk about sex in any other context. Harry’s been told by boys and girls alike that he has the same sort of single-minded focus, and it’s made him wonder sometimes if Marcel inherited that from him or vice-versa. He thinks vice-versa is more likely; Marcel has always been better than Harry, at least in the things that matter, and it's not hard to believe that this transcends into sex. Not knowing what Harry knows, which, fuck, is a lot. 

Harry doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just blinks and repeats, "Marcel, please." He's stupid. Stupid. He's lost all brain function, and his twin's hand is on his dick, and it's just so bloody _hot_. The heat is getting to him even more now, and every point of contact makes him feel as if he is burning. Heavy beads of sweat are traveling down his chest, down the back of his neck, through his scalp. His hair is sticking to his face but he hasn't the energy to push it back or move at all, really. 

Marcel licks his lips and blinks. "Can I suck you?" he asks softly, bringing his other hand to comb through the sparse curls at Harry's crotch, watching his fingers work. "Please? It's been three years and I - I miss it, I think all the time about what it'd feel like, if you got bigger and how much." He blushes, then, the peach pink of his cheeks getting dark red as he continues looking down. 

The thing is, Harry thinks, is that he’s recently developed a crush on his best friend and the only thing that stops him from being such an overused clichè is that he so badly wants to fuck his twin brother, too. More. 

"Okay," Harry finally croaks out, readjusting himself on the bed carefully. "Okay."

Marcel looks up at him through his lashes, his face still tinged pink, but there’s this set determination in his features that makes Harry shiver and sends all his hesitation and morals straight through the window and out of view. Like, he knows. He knows. But no matter what he knows or how he feels about the person he’d latched on to like hell in an effort to separate himself from Marcel and everything they were doing, it’s only ever been Marcel who could get him like this or get _him_ , period, and it’s mindblowing. 

It’s so fucking hot. 

Marcel murmurs something too low for Harry to be able to hear over his laboured breathing, and then his mouth is sucking on the tip of Harry’s cock. Harry gasps wetly. Marcel looks up at him from under his lashes, pressing his tongue flat and running it down the length. His glasses begin to fall off, and with a huff, Marcel lifts his head and throws them in the general direction of the counter before going back down, taking Harry partway down this time. 

Harry’s hands had been idly resting next to his thighs on the bed, but as Marcel swallows him down more and more, his left seizes up to take ahold of Marcel’s hair. It’s so much softer than it ever is at school, falling into his eyes and brushing against Harry’s cock, just as naturally curly as Harry’s are. It’s still bright enough outside that Harry can see the lighter highlights through the sun streaming in through the window. 

Marcel pushes his head up into Harry’s palm, and Harry moans, tightening the grip he has on Marcel’s hair until it’s got to be hard enough to hurt. It’s weird, maybe, but mostly exhilarating that even after all this time, Harry can still tell what Marcel wants just from a single movement. It makes sense; they had discovered their sexualities and turn ons with each other. The vibrations when his brother groans around his cock in response to that remind Harry of just how close he’d already been before the door opened. 

“Marcel,” he whimpers. Feels like that’s the only word he’s said which... is probably true. He can’t think or focus on anything or anyone else and that should scare him. It should. 

Marcel has him almost all the way down, and he stops, looking back up at Harry with wide eyes and tapping him on the hip with his index and middle fingers. _Shit_ , Harry thinks, lifting his hips and fucking into Marcel’s mouth. _Fucking shit_. 

He tries to only give shallow little thrusts, bracing his hands behind himself. It feels too good, the warmth of Marcel’s mouth and the sweat dripping off his forehead and falling onto Harry’s torso. 

Marcel is really, really beautiful, and Harry has always wondered if it’s narcissistic of him to think so, seeing as they look essentially identical, but it’s true, and it’s never so obvious than now, his eyes closed and lashes fluttering against his peach pink cheeks, long expanse of his back and big hand resting on Harry’s bare torso. 

He scrapes his teeth against the base of Harry’s cock when he thrusts down, and then Harry can’t help but push in too far, feels the muscles of Marcel’s throat spasming around the head of his cock and then he’s gone, coming down Marcel’s throat with a cry and shaky legs. 

Marcel pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm and sitting back on his thighs. 

They just stay there, staring at each other as Harry tries to get his breathing under control - and failing, for the most part. Marcel’s mouth is swollen and red, his eyes watery and blown. Even after coming, Harry still wants him so fucking bad. 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all, and after only a beat, Marcel is getting up and walking out of the room without a word. 

Harry keeps staring at the spot where his twin brother just was, and tries not to let the bile rise to his throat. 

-

At exactly 3:15 AM, Harry picks up Marcel’s glasses from the floor, gets out of bed, and exits his room, padding quietly across the hallway down to Marcel’s, making sure not to step on the creaky floorboard directly above Gemma’s room on the second floor and risk waking her. 

When he steps inside the room, Marcel is sitting criss-cross on his bed, facing the door. The only light open is his desk lamp, and it creates a dim glow throughout the room, casting shadows on his face. 

They stay in the darkness for a minute or two, Harry standing in only his briefs and Marcel sitting stark naked, fixated on one another and Harry hardly daring to breathe. Until he finally says, “You forgot your glasses,” and then almost immediately after, “I want you to fuck me.”

Marcel blinks, long and slow, and then is smiling, just a quirk of his lips to the side, but it makes Harry’s heart swoop and his dick twitch in his briefs. 

Harry forces himself to keep his pace controlled as he walks over to the bed, crawling up on hands and knees to join Marcel in the middle of the queen-sized bed. He pauses only for a second before climbing onto Marcel’s lap, splaying his long legs out and bringing a shaking hand up to push Marcel’s hair off his forehead and place the glasses back onto his face carefully. 

“What time’s it?” Marcel asks him, leaning his face in close. 

“3:15 when I left,” Harry answers, a corner of his mouth turning up. Back when... back _when_ , it would always be 3:15 when they’d sneak into the other’s room, wide-eyed and young and too infatuated to admit or even acknowledge that what they were doing was wrong. Ignorance is bliss. 

Marcel’s mouth is on his then; Harry sighs into the kiss, tilting his head so that their noses don’t bump and taking off the frames he just put on. His lungs and heart feel like they’ve collapsed, and all he can hear in his head besides the insistent pounding on his blood is the chant _finally finally finally_ and Marcel’s name. He scoots himself closer on Marcel’s lap, trapping Marcel’s cock, quickly on its way to being fully hard, in between their stomach. Marcel moans into the kiss, rocking his hips up and parting his lips. Harry takes the opportunity to snake his tongue into Marcel’s mouth, running it over the row of Marcel’s bottom teeth before pressing it flat against his brother’s own. Marcel’s mouth tastes like the fading remnants of Listerine and not much else, but it’s still good, more than good, simply because it’s this boy. 

Every time Marcel ruts his hips up, he presses against Harry’s cock, still nestled in his boxers even though he can feel the tip poking out through the top. He’s been hard for what feels like hours now and has only really been one, but he hasn’t allowed himself to come or even touch himself at all. Every brush of his balls beneath the fabric and Marcel’s sends a jolt running through his body, like he’s being electrocuted from the inside-out. 

He reluctantly removes himself from the kiss, trailing his lips down and raising goosebumps where he goes before latching his mouth onto Marcel’s collarbones, just high enough that it won’t be hidden. 

“Harry,” Marcel says lowly. He sounds wrecked already, has always been so easy, and that has Harry smiling as he sucks the mark onto the pale skin. “Can’t.”

“Can,” Harry assures him. “No one’s gonna know.”

Marcel looks like he’s going to keep arguing, so Harry kisses him, effectively shutting him up. When he pulls back for air with a raised brow, Marcel looks even more affected and doesn’t look like he’s going to protest anymore, so Harry bites down on the same spot at his collarbone, sucking until Marcel hisses from the sensitivity and he’s sure it’ll leave a bruise. Marcel’s hands are roaming all over his body, one hand travelling the expanse of his back to rest right on his bum, the other squeezing into the limited space between their bodies to flick his fingernail over the slit of Harry’s cock.

"Fuck," Harry groans, not sure whether to rock back into Marcel's hand on his ass or into the slight touch on his dick. He thinks if he doesn't get Marcel in him soon he'll explode. 

"Can I fuck you now?" Marcel questions quietly. Everything in the silence and eery glow of the room makes all things sound right loud, a whisper more of a shout, a low moan something like a cry. 

"Yes, yes, yes," he says breathlessly. 

Getting his briefs off and locating the lube takes more time than Harry wishes it would, but they do it, and then he's back in Marcel's lap as Marcel presses the pad of his finger against his hole, slick with lube. 

"I swear to God," he warns, pushing back and really not in the mood for anything slow and teasing. It's been three fucking years. 

"Okay, Jesus," says Marcel, grinning a little in the darkness. He's so damn gorgeous. 

Harry's head falls onto Marcel's shoulder when he eases the first finger in, breathing heavily against his neck. It's not as hot as it'd been earlier, but it's still humid as hell, and the moist, warm air coming in from the windows isn't helping him cool down at all. 

Marcel fingers him slowly, mouthing his way down Harry's neck, soft, wet, open-mouthed kisses on his skin that feel like currents. 

"'Nother," he says not too long later, rolling his hips forward so that their cocks are rubbing against each other. They're the same length and girth, and it's - something. No other guy Harry has been with has been able to match up with him so perfectly.

Marcel enters with two fingers this time, and Harry lets out a soft cry, trying his hardest to not be loud so as not to wake Gemma up. That would be a disaster, to say the least. Getting caught has always been the most frightening thing he could imagine, but sometimes it would help get him off even more quickly, the adrenaline spurring and turning him on. He's never claimed to be anything less than fucked up, anyway. Marcel crooks his fingers up expertly, immediately hitting Harry's prostate. 

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, shutting his eyes tight, throat dry, body rutting forward desperately for some attention on his cock. It's been so long since there was anything in him other than his own fingers. "Marcel. Marcel." 

"I know," Marcel answers, voice a few pitches lower than average. Harry lifts his head to kiss Marcel again, messy and with lots of tongue as he fucks himself down and back on Marcel's fingers. He feels full, so full, but it's not enough, it's never enough. It's like no matter what he does, he can never get close enough or far away enough from Marcel and it's scary, it scares him so so much, because he's seventeen and it's 3 AM on a Saturday night and he should be at a house party, wasted and grinding on a pretty girl in the guest bedroom but instead he's home getting prepped to get fucked by his twin brother, their sister sleeping just a story down, none the wiser. God.

Marcel brings three fingers up to Harry's lips, and he doesn't think twice to open his mouth so that they can press in, taking them to the knuckle and sucking desperately and messily. His eyes are wide and beginning to water and his mouth aches from how they're being stretched awkwardly, spit dripping out of the corners steadily, but he doesn't care, he loves this. He can't help but imagine a scenario where he's on all fours, Marcel fucking his ass while Louis fucks his mouth, and it's - shit. Shit. 

"God," Marcel says reverently, "you're gagging for it." 

Harry moans around the fingers, swirling his tongue around and between the crevices and pushing back eagerly when the fingers in his ass brush against his prostate again. 

Marcel removes the fingers in his mouth too soon, but it's okay because he brings them down to wrap around Harry's cock, providing an ease as he jacks him off, hands big enough to be able to wrap around the base more than comfortably. Harry had wanted to stay centred and controlled , but he should have known that even the thought of it would be a lost cause. He's never like this with anyone else. 

Marcel adds another finger into the mix, gripping Harry's cock tightly to keep him from coming too soon. Harry hisses, his hands around Marcel's neck fluttering uselessly as he bites down again, this time on the side of his neck. 

"You're really tight," Marcel breathes, scissoring his fingers. 

"Haven't let anyone fuck me," he says. It's true. He always tops, has never felt comfortable otherwise. Unless, of course, it's with Marcel. Marcel is always the exception. Then, it doesn't matter who's doing what as long as they get to do something leading even vaguely to orgasm. 

"Oh my God," says Marcel. He removes his finger slowly, and Harry laments the loss, clenching around warm air and feeling empty. Marcel grabs the bottle of lube next to his thigh, though, and slicks up his cock in a hurry. "Okay. Okay, I'm. H," he pleads, like this newfound knowledge has put him over the edge and out of any proper brain function. 

Harry nods, feeling pleased with himself, and lifts his hips, digging the heels of his foot into the pillow at the head of the bed and his nails into Marcel's back. He reaches a hand behind himself to line Marcel up, the tip wet with precome and rubbing against his crack. He braces himself and sinks down, inch by inch, focusing on breathing. It _hurts_ , has seriously been too long, and feels like he's getting split apart. He makes himself take it, though, not stopping til his ass is rested on Marcel's thighs. 

"Are you okay?" Marcel asks anxiously. It sounds like he's gritting his teeth, and Harry can see his hands where they're smacking aimlessly on the bedspread. 

"Yeah," Harry forces out. He just needs a moment. "Three years, y'know?" 

Marcel nods jerkily, a smile playing at his lips even though he looks like he's going to come any minute. When Harry feels like he can inhale with his insides shredding again, he rolls his hips, letting himself get settled and comfortable before lifting up slowly and slamming back down.

"Oh my _God_ ," Marcel cries. Loudly. Harry smacks a hand over his mouth, tilting his head pointedly at the floor below them before dropping it. Marcel nods again, biting his bottom lip so hard it looks like it might break skin. 

Harry repeats his motions, trying for some sort of rhythm. He feels full again and warm all over, sweat sheening all over his and Marcel's skin. It takes a few, but eventually he gets it down, knowing for sure that he has when Marcel's cock hits his prostate. Marcel's arms are wrapped around his shoulders and Harry's ankles are locked around the other boy's hips, as he rests his temple on the side of Marcel's head, putting the two as close together as is physically possible. He rides Marcel at an even paces, going as deep as he can without faltering.

Marcel's mouth is slack, his hair plastered to his forehead. Harry can hardly see a single tinge of green in his eyes even this close, his pupils dilated and dark. 

"Fuck," Marcel moans. It's the first time he's sworn all night, and Harry feels heat flare in his body. 

On the next one down, the head of Marcel's dick bumps against his prostate again, and Harry has to bite down _hard_ on Marcel's shoulder to stop himself from screaming. He's forgotten how good this can be; his memories have done nowhere near enough justice. Everything feel brighter and sharper and better, so much bloody better, and he thinks he's been lit aflame from the inside out. 

"M'close," Marcel tells him. "Not gonna last, not gonna - " 

Harry isn't either, and he brings his mouth back to Marcel's, kissing his roughly and frantically. His cock is red and twitching insistently between their bodies, sending another blast of pleasure in his bloodstream every time the tip brushes against Marcel's torso. He increases the pace, as fast as he can without risking Marcel slipping out, bouncing quickly on Marcel's cock as the pressure in his gut increases. 

Their pants and low moans and sound of skin slapping against skin reverberate loudly in the silence of the dark house. They're hardly even kissing anymore, just breathing wetly into each other's open mouths. He nudges Marcel's right hand resting on the bed beside them until he gets the hint and brings it up to stroke Harry's cock awkwardly, hardly able to get a rhythm on things. 

Harry keens, so so so close now, and manages out, "missed this, missed you," and then his brother is coming inside him with a high cry, fucking up into Harry's ass shallowly as he rides it out. 

"Please," he whispers into Marcel's mouth, voice cracking on the single syllable. Marcel wanks him off, grip brutal and borderline painful, but it more than does the job, and after he runs his thumb over the slit, Harry's gone, coming in between their stomachs and biting his lip to keep himself from shouting out and fucking it all up. 

They try to get their breathing under control as they come back down, Marcel still inside him as Harry slumps forward against Marcel's chest. He's tired and entirely worn out. He can feel the come dripping out of him, and it's sticky and probably gross, but he doesn't mind anywhere near as much as he should. 

"Hello," Marcel finally says after a few minutes of quiet.

Harry smiles against his shoulder and tightens his grip around Marcel's hips. 

-

In the morning, Gemma walks into Marcel's room. 

Harry'd put his briefs back on in the course of the night, and their bodies are entirely hidden under the comforter, so he doesn't worry all that much. He can feel Marcel's pulse speed up from where he's got a few fingers wrapped lightly around his wrist and he squeezes, tapping him on the hip with his other hand where Gemma can't see. 

They pretend to stay asleep; he hears Gemma's footfalls on the wood floor as she walks closer, leaning over their bodies to look at what's going on. Her face is way too close to his for him to be comfortable and he wishes he wasn't pretending to be asleep so that he could hit her and push her away. 

"I said to talk to him, not bring him to a bloody club," she mumbles, probably rolling her eyes even though she sounds happy, and then her steps are fading away and the door is shut softly. 

Marcel lets out a sigh of relief once she's gone, pushing back into Harry's crotch. 

"Don't," he hisses, fighting the urge to thrust forward into the crevice of Marcel's bum. 

Marcel giggles and Harry snuggles into his neck and... that's that.

**Author's Note:**

> based off a [prompt](http://niallstin.tumblr.com/post/56539029969) from an anon on my tumblr. title from magic by, y'know. them.


End file.
